James Conway’s new production of what is surely one of the three greatest
operas of the seventeenth century, and perhaps the greatest of all, L’incoronazione di Poppea, is a splendid
affair: intelligent conceived , tightly directed, and resourcefully designed by
Samal Blak. Conway’s words in the programme should be drilled into anyone who
opines on staging, whether in print, on the Internet, or in the theatre: ‘The
question of what “period” to set it all in is not the beginning or the end of
the process, but an historically informed decision somewhere in the middle.
Sadly, this is certainly the decision that seems to exercise people most.’
There is no reasoning with those who scream ‘why is not set in x at the time y?’ as soon as anything is depicted that does not conform to their unimaginative,
unhistorical and generally quite vulgar sense of hyper-realism. If only we had
pictures, or other evidence, of the costumes and backdrops employed in Venice’s
Teatro SS Giovanni e Paulo, I am sure they would find themselves in an
irresolvable quandary. Should those be replicated, or should we have something
recognisably of Rome in AD 65? I doubt very much that any set of designs would
be able to accomplish both. Conway’s setting was imaginative and worked in
theatrical terms. Apologising ‘to those who anticipated togas, or 17th
century Venice,’ and we should note the operative or, he says that he considered ‘Tudor Terror, but too much reading
about the revolutionary ego and Stalin’s bruising reign convinced me that this
was a place ... from which Ottone, Dusilla, Ottavia and Seneca might suddenly
disappear, and in which all might live cheek by jowl in a sort of family
nightmare, persisting in belief in family (or some related ideal) even as it devours
them.’ And so it came to pass, a fine young cast conveying its conviction in
the concept.

Katherine Crompton (Poppea) and Annie
Frederiksson (Nerone)

Yet, as we saw Conway remark, the time and place are not in themselves
the most important matter. The sense of relative claustrophobia, of arbitrary
imperial caprice, of the intertwining of sex and high – or low – politics was
far more important than the admittedly handsome designs, whether of costume or
sets. (The latter were crucial in another way, though, permitting a great deal
of observation from outside and sudden secret intimacy.) Perhaps the most
radical step, however, had nothing to do with where the opera was set at all.
It was the depiction of Poppea less as the typical sex kitten than as an almost
Lulu-like projection of fantasies ‘far more damaging than she’.

That reversal, or at least re-evaluation, seemed to me to work better
after the interval in the second and third acts than in the first, where one
felt something of a lack in her character. But perhaps the fault lay with me
and the time it took to accustom myself to the new understanding. I think it
was also, though, a matter of Katherine Crompton working her way into the role
of the anti-heroine. The blonde wig and somewhat frumpy costume of the first
act did her no favours; indeed, she looked at that point more like Grayson
Perry than aspirant empress. Moreover, her vocal performance took a while to
blossom too. Once the first act was over, however, idea and portrayal were
captivating – and convincing. Much the same could be said of Annie
Fredriksson’s Nerone. Perhaps the most impressive members of an impressive cast
were Bradley Travis’s Ottone and Fiona Mackenzie as a beautiful, wronged but
also wronging Ottavia: a far more complex character than one would ever guess
from hearing the astounding lament, ‘Addio Roma’ out of context – as one often
does. Travis offered an Ottone as handsome of voice as of uniformed figure; his
conflict was credible, tormenting and, through expressive artistry very much
became ours. Hanna Sandison’s Drusilla also offered complexity of character,
whilst Matthew Ward’s nurse in drag, Arnalta, offered not only a degree of
Shakespearean comic relief but the proper degree of homespun wisdom – or is it
nonsense?

Hannah Sandison (Drusilla)

From where I was seated I could not see the pit, so am not entirely
certain whether the instruments were ‘old’ (which, in our Alice in Wonderland
world generally seems to mean new, but alleged replicas). The strings, a small
band, certainly did not sound modern, but they had more than a hint of the ‘modern,
but played in “period” style’ to them: more Harnoncourt than the extremist
fringe. That is of course as much a matter of performance as of hardware, and
Michael Rosewell’s direction tended to steer a not entirely convincing ‘third
way’. There was certainly none of Leppard’s – let alone Karajan’s – tonal refulgence;
indeed, string sonority was often unpleasantly thin. But nor was there the
lightness, after a fashion, of Renaissance, as opposed to later Baroque,
instruments. Continuo playing picked up after the interval; the first act
alternated a little too often between heavy harpsichords and hesitant theorbo.
Recorders were occasionally employed, to good effect. But the singing and
production were the thing – and they were in most respects impressive indeed.
Those unable to make these RCM performances may be interested to know that the
production will be revived for English Touring Opera in autumn 2013.

Matthew Ward (Arnalta)

For what it is worth, that most frustrating of final duets, ‘Pur ti miro,’
– one desperately wants it to be by Monteverdi, since it is so ravishingly
beautiful and moving, even though one’s head tells one that it is not – sounded
rather different from the rest of the score, as if by a later or younger
composer, which it almost certainly is. Someone, or rather several people, had
clearly done something right, to engineer that effect, much as one might have
wanted to wish it away.

Performances continue on 28 and 30 November, and 1 December, the second
and fourth performances offering partly different casts.

2 comments:

"There is no reasoning with those who scream ‘why is not set in x at the time y?’ as soon as anything is depicted that does not conform to their unimaginative, unhistorical and generally quite vulgar sense of hyper-realism"

Excuse me?

Opera-going for most of us is a rare treat. We are (I think) unlikely to have seen ten or more productions of, say, Tristan und Isolde. Yet, when we go to the opera house, and pay a fortune for a good seat, we are as likely as not to see a production that declares war on the original work, and replaces complexity and originality with crass cliché: in which, for example, Senta, or Brünnhilde, or Isolde, or even Ariadne is merely fantasizing about transfiguration. Or in which a sexually repressive society is yet again symbolized by men in black stovepipe hats. My disappointment was particularly strong when I recently fulfilled a fifty-year-long ambition by attending the Bayreuth festival. By the way how do singers who are forced to perform in these at best absurd, at worst, debased, productions keep from bursting into gales of laughter - or tears - is beyond me.

There seems to be no arena of modern life immune from the follies of modern "progressive" thought, and the politicization of the arts is a tragedy.

It’s time for the audiences to rise up and say ENOUGH with Regietheater! It's time someone stood up for those who originally conceived, wrote, composed, and staged operas and ballets. I want to see and hear what the librettist and composer had in mind WHEN THEY WORKED TO PRODUCE A PIECE. I do NOT want that vision occluded by the political and social vagaries of another period.